Dragon Age: Tales from the West
by SpartanEngineer
Summary: "I know from my smile that I will always sing to the tune of adventure." So begins the story of the Hero of Ferelden, who had disappeared from Thedas in its darkest hour. Perhaps fate knew that the darkness this Hero carried was needed to cast light in another world - in the lands that had never known the Blight. Only, there exists no division between light and dark there. [Ver1.1]
1. From Ashes

"Find the path that destiny has chosen and see for yourself what lies beyond" – Casor Amell

…

I know from my smile that I will always sing to the tune of adventure. Despite navigating this ridiculous path that barely qualifies as a 'path', I smile through the huffs as I make my way up the charred hill. Even after a decade of travelling and war, my curiosity taps at my heart at this awe-inspiring scene. I take time to savor this moment… despite it all, it is the beginning of another adventure.

Call me Casor. I'm well known enough, but I want you to know who I am at this moment, at the precipitance of change. I am a mage of thirty-one; but I look more like a warrior in my griffon plate armor. I carry no staff so that I may always have the element of surprise. I don't look thirty-one either – I look younger, probably thanks to my handsome face. That last statement will come out as arrogant no matter how I put it, but 'tis true. I can melt many a heart.

My heart? Once, it used to be fickle – cowardly, bitter, and arrogant. My lips usually held back the poison that would spit at any and every thing. Oh, I am exaggerating my past, I know, but I wasn't particularly the most hospitable person in the Circle. That changed during the Blight. It had to. Experiencing death, trauma, duty, and fear, the little boy had to learn quick. You'd think that I would've become even colder – but then came love, and courage. By the end of the journey, I knew I had become an entirely new person, plagued forever by adventures.

Just re-reading that last paragraph, my words are akin to words written by a little boy dreaming of a Hero. Cringeworthy as they are, they are true nonetheless. After all, I am but a little boy in the body of a man growing old.

This is me. Was me. Is me. I want you to remember that, even when I didn't.

As with all adventures, this one too begins with a terrifying view from a vantage point. The sky is a smoldering mess, mountains red with belching fire. The ground is black, resembling the Blighted grounds. Few streams of liquid puncture the land, steaming as if in agony. Even on good days, it is difficult to see far, and every breath causes a cough of irritation. It is little wonder that the lands of the West have had been shrouded in mystery: this is the edge of Thedas... the End of the World.

"A good place to label as the 'End'." I murmur.

I adjust my mouth cover and shift uncomfortably in my armor. Inscribed in silver, I finger the double Griffin heraldry of a Warden Commander, trying to return its shine against the soot of this accursed place. I can feel the grime rubbing onto my skin. I snicker – it is difficult to ponder the great future, and ask the question of unknown beyond when I need a damned bath.

There is a soft crunch behind me, and I wait for him join me at the plateau. The messenger takes a moment to catch his breath.

"Commander, news for you."

I nod, signaling him to continue. I would have offered him some water, but the best I can manage is a large ice shard. I don't think he'd like that.

"The Mouse Ear agent has arrived Commander, and so has a crow from Orlais. Here."

The messenger produces a small scroll from his sleeve and hands it me. I recognize this red Orlesian seal, break it open, and swiftly read the smooth vellum. It does not take long for the message to prove itself to be a major annoyance – yet another Orlesian political debacle.

Except…

With a sigh, I roll up the scroll and hand it back to the messenger.

"I… guess I should've seen this coming. Dammit… Call everyone in. Even the watchers. I want a full meeting tonight, two hours after sunset. Tell the Mouse Ear agent to meet me outside my cabin in half an hour." I order. The messenger gives an affirmative nod then leaves. I return the gaze to the landscape.

I reach up into my armor and pull out my necklace. It's pretty; a tear-drop shaped piece of gold about the size of an acorn, always hanging from my neck on a silver chain, usually hidden beneath the clothes. I roll it back and forth on my palm, thinking…

I put it back beneath my armor.

Turning to leave, I look up, and throw a ball of fire into the sky. Just for fun.

…

I walk into my cabin tent, shaking off ash as I go, preoccupied with the message on the scroll. I look up towards the doorway and spend the next second trying to not look so shocked. There stood the Mouse Ears agent… and whoever I had expected, it wasn't _her_.

The female Qunari approaches me with light leather steps. "Greetings, Commander of the Grey. You have requested my presence here."

The first thing I notice about her is her height. She's terribly short for a Qunari, barely taller than me. Her stooping posture doesn't help, though I guess it make her look menacing. The next thing I notice is her horns – and lack thereof. It's been sawn off, with only rounded stumps marking their spot. That explains her wearing of clothes clearly of non-Qunari origin. The last thing I notice is her eyes, which were trained to be unrevealing. That skill in itself revealed a lot about her – and many of my presumptions would prove to be quite accurate.

I think I've seen her before – as the gargoyle statue that once decorated the Tower exterior. Their cowl even feels the same.

"Nice to meet you. My name is Casor Amell. Your name is…?"

I offer my hand with a smile. The agent shakes it emotionlessly. Her hands are coarse and grooved at its tips.

"I am referred to as Tal."

I nod, and let her follow me into the tent. It's closer to a claustrophobic rag on stilts, but the lack of furnishing gives it an illusion of space. Grey Wardens aren't the sort to choose anyway, but at least this one has a separate bedroom – privilege of a Commander.

"Take a seat. Any drinks?"

Tal shakes her head slowly. She sits down, leaning forward onto the small table. The chair gives out a little groan of pain at her weight, though it makes that sound with me on it as well. I grin, pull out a water bag, and rehydrate myself before I cure like a jerky.

I turn to offer her a drink, but she shakes her head slowly. I wonder if gargoyles would move in slow motion like she does. Replacing the bag, I produce pen and paper, and return to the desk with a prepared list of questions.

"So, you are here to guide us into the West. Although I have many questions to ask you, I'm sure we'll have time to speak later. So I will ask you the most pressing of the questions."

Tal nods, her eyes boring into mine.

"What do you know of the Artefact?"

Tal shakes her head. "Nothing."

I feel tempted to right 'nothing' in large block letters on paper.

"Then who is the person that sent the message – or a vision?"

"Seer Pervanti."

"Okay... Then who is this Seer Pervanti?"

"Seer Pervanti is a human Seer."

I write down the name and wait for more. An awkward silence ensues. Qunaries! Why couldn't they ever be sociable?

"Okay, who are the Seers?"

"They are Bas Saarebas. Mages, in your tongue. They are like Ariqun, the priests, in the West."

"Mage Priests? The Chantry's going to have a fit. So, there's no Chantry in the West?"

"No."

"That was a stupid question. I'll give you that. Wait, so do these Seers lead some other religion?"

"No."

I growl inside, remembering conversations with Sten many years ago. Why didn't any of the Qunari simply speak freely? For Andraste's sake, why?

"Why did you say that these Seers are like priests?"

"People listen to them."

I shake my head, attempting to free myself from the pain of this ridiculous interview. With an inaudible sigh, I move my pen to the most important question.

"Alright. This journey ahead. How long will it take? How many people do you think I can bring?"

Tal thinks for a while, her gaze still held against mine. This, I know how to deal with – every Qunari expects you to squirm in the seat. It's their way of asserting dominance, and testing your worth. So I stare back with equal intensity. It hurts my eyes.

"It has taken me nine days. Lands ahead are perilous. Take no more than two with you. Water holes will not support more than four."

I nod. It's not great news, but not entirely unexpected. It doesn't take long for me to choose the two companions – one for a good old friend, and another for the Chantry, a payment made for the opening round of the Game. Now it's Leliana's turn.

The rest of the Wardens? I presume they will be quite occupied with a building project…

"Thank you, Tal. Please, rest here in this cabin. Use whatever you wish. We will leave tonight."

…

"Warden Dyon's just arrived. That's all of us, Commander."

I nod. A group of thirty Grey Wardens stands silently in the dark camp clearing, lit by torchlights that protrude from the wooden buildings. It's sort of intimidating, even after a decade, to think that I am in command of the most feared warriors in the world. A motley group of mostly questionable origins, yes, but venerable nonetheless. I know that they are proud to behold the Hero of Ferelden as their commander – so I try my best to live up to that pride. I think I'm doing well, because they all love me. I think.

Some others stand at the edge of the clearing – opportunistic merchants, minor noblemen, and a group of Chantry 'heralds'. These people I know for certain don't love me. I hadn't particularly welcomed them, but hadn't banished them from the camp either, automatically making them the unwanted party crashers. I wanted to keep them that way.

I step onto a small stool that serves as a makeshift podium, and watch as the silence settles over the camp. I smile sadly before I speak.

"Good evening, Grey Wardens! I've got only bad news, but important nonetheless. The first one. The Orlesians' are going mad with politics as usual. [some laughter, some groans, many frowns from the party crashers] Except this time, it isn't just the Game anymore. There's a fight brewing between Empress Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard. If my instincts are correct, this is going to be a war. Perhaps. Now, my claim of war alone is enough to brand me as an enemy of Orlais, which gives you the sense of the sensitivity of this situation. I understand the Warden's rule – not to interfere in politics. However, war is war. People die, and we cannot just watch that unfold. Therefore, I will reassign you all to the primary order of protecting the people from harm. Obviously, you keep to the Warden orders – which I will tell you in a minute – but I ask you to ensure the safety of the people whenever you can. Anyway, this means that we go from a 'non-existent on paper' mission to 'out of concern' mission. We've effectively lost all support from Orlais and the Chantry. They sent me a message that the supports may arrive 'infrequently'… This is bad. For the people, I mean… Lucky for us, the location here seems quite sustainable, ashen as they are. That's why I want a fort here. A stone fort. Self-sustained. Warden Gada, you were a stonemason before you joined us, right?"

A moon-faced dwarf grunts in response.

"I put you in charge in constructing a fort here. Let's call it the World's Edge, because this that's what this place is. I want a sustainable, long-term fort that will serve as a forward base to those wishing to travel to the West. This fort, at least in the coming few years, must also serve as a refugee camp for those displaced by war."

The eldest of the Wardens hold uncertain frowns on their faces. They understand my motivations, but clearly remember the Warden's Keep rebellion. I couldn't care less.

"I also want you to start researching this area. There's a reason why darkspawn couldn't cross this place and into the West. The First Warden wants to know why."

I did not know it then, but World's Edge would eventually become a backwater camp for Venatori, and the very clearing I was standing in would be a staging ground for blood sacrifices. By the time I return, expecting a warm welcome and nice rest, this place would be an active battlefield between the remaining madmen and the Inquisition. It is ironic that the Warden Gada is so efficient in his building when he is lazy for most other things.

Warden Eln puts his hand up. I nod at him.

"Why would we need a forward base here? Are we not going to the West?"

"No. That leads precisely to my next news. Our guide into the West arrived. She told me that no, we cannot all go to the West. Only three people, other than our guide, can. This is because of lack of drinking water on our path there. I have already chosen my companions. Warden Sigrun, you're coming with me."

There is a murmur of surprise amongst the Wardens (about the 'not-everyone-can-go' part, not 'Warden-Sigrun-is-going' part. Sigrun had gained a lot of respect and favor amongst the Order, and everyone knew of her accomplishments during Darkspawn Civil War). Sigrun flashes a grin, the same, familiar grin from eight years ago, and makes her way to the front.

There is an outburst of anger amongst the party crashers, one that justifies my nickname for them. But I guess I can understand their anger; they are here to do business after all, and the news that they wouldn't be able to go to the West is the last thing they probably want to hear. I nod and hold up a hand, waiting for some time to get my silence.

"I understand that this may cause some problems to our guests. That is why I will leave a trail behind, so that anyone can follow. You Wardens know what I am talking about. If anybody does follow, then do not go more than three at a time, and do not go without waiting for at least a month after the previous group. This is to keep the water holes alive."

On my return journey, I found that my trail was still very much intact. Considering what happened in Thedas during my absence, I am surprised nobody attempted a panicked escape from the chaos.

"I ask the Wardens to focus on your construction and research here, but that is not an order. If anybody do want to desperately go to the West, then you are welcome. Alright. That's the news. I will leave tonight, after most of you go to sleep, so this is a good-bye. I wish you all well, and stay strong. Remember our oath. In War, victory. In Peace, vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice. Remember that we are the Grey Wardens. Remember what makes us the heroes of Thedas. From this moment on, I relinquish my position of Commander to Constable-Warden Wime. Congratulations, new Commander."

…

One thing I am reminded every night is how jolly Grey Wardens are. My insistence that farewell party isn't necessary is easily waved away, and we all enjoy a hearty meal with bottles of alcohol produced from smuggled caches ("Where's this from, Warden Tebok?" "From my emergency supplies, sir!" "Okay, how many of you seriously smuggled in a bottle of wine?" "I think all of us, sir. Except for Warden Tebok. He's brought four dozen."). I barely know half of these guys, but that doesn't stop any of us from sharing a brilliant party.

The guests are decidedly gloomy, with some were already packing to return home. The Chantry heralds stand around in a circle, whispering quietly. They are creepy. It's never a good idea to look like you're going to sacrifice a virgin, especially in front of a skeptic like me.

I am not an Andrastian. I used to be. Then I wasn't. Then I was again… and now I'm just confused. I guess I still believe in the Maker… but I have difficulty praying. Still, I understand the power of the Chantry, and Faith. I've seen that, too.

After the party dies down, I surgically untangle myself from the mountain of passed out Wardens and make my way to my tent. The Mouse Ears agent is already gone. I take my casual time, walking around the tent to collect my belongings. I package my inventory into a large rucksack, walk around for one last time, and make my way to camp gates. Few sober Wardens wave, and I wave back.

…

Tal stands in the shadow, her figure reduced to a dark outline of reflected moon-shine. Sigrun seem unfazed by their drastic height difference as she stands beside her. She wears a new set of Grey Warden scout armor, with the iconic blue chainmail and silver Griffin breastplate. She also has a Legion of the Dead symbol on her shoulders, a custom edition from her Legionnaire days. Her back stows two double-edged axes, uniquely Sigrun (using her name as an adjective is always perfectly apt), placed so as to not to interfere with her rucksack. Funnily enough, her bag size is almost identical to Tal's. By the look on her face, Sigrun had obviously tried to talk to her new companion and failed.

"Commander! No, sorry. It's not Commander anymore. I don't know what to call you now." Sigrun chirp brightly.

"Just Warden Amell. But we've known each other long enough to drop formalities outside the Order, Sigrun." I reply, nodding at Tal that ends in a one-way greeting.

"You're right, I guess. It's been eight years already. Phew! Time flies when you're dead! Really though, what should I call you?" Sigrun ask.

"People usually have names for that purpose, you know? Casor. Or Amell. Both are fine. At convenient times, Hero, but try avoiding that. You know exactly what I am talking about." I answer with a smile.

"I do. That was funny back then. We should do that again sometime. Alright. Cas-or? Ca-sor? Amell. Amell! That's easier to say. I'll stick to that."

Sigrun flicks an uncomfortable glance at the Qunari, and her expression begging me to help. I force down a snicker.

"I believe official greetings are in order! Tal, this is Sigrun, a Legion of the Dead scouts-women and a Senior Grey Warden. Sigrun, this is Tal, agent of the Mouse Ears and our guide."

They shake hands uncomfortably, and only because the situation calls for a handshake. Just as things start to get awkward again, a loud clang surprises me. Tal immediately puts her hand on her belt – a hilt of a dagger, I suspect.

"Andraste's a-, no I shouldn't say that. _Groan_. Oh look. Hello!"

A figure emerges from the shadows. It is a full Templar armor, child-size, complete with full-face helmet, Templar shield and Templar mace. This armor also tots a rucksack comparable to that of Tal and Sigrun's, though plastered almost childishly with Chantry symbols. I react without thought, summoning a fireball in my hands, shaking off the spell before anybody notices.

As they say, you can take a Mage out the Circle, but you can't take the Circle out of a Mage.

"Greetings. I am Casor Amell, as you may know already. And you are…"

The figure approaches me slowly, as if approaching a dangerous animal. There is something unnerving about this Templar's movements.

"Sinnan. Sinnan Surana. You must be the robe. Hero of Ferelden, as they say." The Templar squeaks. His voice is unnaturally high, much like a child who first learnt how to read the Chant.

"That is an old title. I presume you are the one that the Chantry heralds chose?"

"Yes. I am the Messenger of the Chant of Light. It is a holy burden, one that I hope to fulfill to the best of my ability. By Maker's blessing, I will do so." Sinnan continued, his voice nagging my ears. It's worse than the noise of a deepstalker, and that's saying something.

"Surana… That's an elven name." I inquire.

"And what if I am? Do you have a problem with elves, mage?"

What? An elven Templar? That's not possible… Elves can't be a Templar! The Chantry is racist… they would never allow an elf to join Templar ranks, nor would any Templar call elf brethren. Yet here he is, an elven Templar… How? This Sinnan might be the first elven Templar – ever.

That's how I'm trying to justify this strange man. In reality, I'm debating on cutting off his head.

"Oh no no no. Definitely not. I'm surprised – honored, actually – to meet an elven Templar. Welcome to the group." I reply, mustering as much friendliness as I can. Sinnan grunts in response.

"Why are we standing here? If we are leaving, we should leave." Tal interjects. She does have a point.

"Yes. Let's re-do our official introductions. I am Warden Casor Amell. Either Casor or Amell is fine."

I nod to Sigrun, who takes the cue.

"My turn. I am Warden Sigrun. I don't have a house name. Just Sigrun is good."

"I am referred to as Tal."

"I am Templar Sinnan Surana, Messenger of the Chant of Light. I am with you to serve the Maker, and not a robe."

I sigh. This is one crazy die-hard Templar.

A Qunari, a dwarf, a human, and an elf walks into ashes… so this is how this story starts. I wonder how it would end?

…

Hello, it's been some time, hasn't it? Of course, everyone would have thought this was one of those 'dead fics' and filed it away into wasted time. Haha! You're wrong, because I've been spending time revising the whole thing. Now, as version 1.1, the story and the world is better fleshed out, writing revised and revamped, and stupid silly bits cut. The story is slow moving, and that's how I wanted to take this fiction for now. When it speeds up, oh boy it'll speed up, but for the most part, it will be slow.

I won't lie to you – the story will be much harder to decipher. Everything happens for a cause, and everything is mentioned for a reason, but the links will be almost impossible to find. But if you do, then you'll be able to predict the future. I've taken inspirations from many other works and hopefully have improved my writing, too. Most striking feature is the change in perspective, but you'll see why – in Chapter 30ish mark.

Now, I make no promises – the updates will be far and infrequent. But trust me, the story is continuously being written. I hope you enjoy your stay in the West, and the travels with Casor Amell. For the return guests, welcome back! For the newcomers, welcome! Let us begin. - SpartanEngineer


	2. A Walk to the Woods

"It always fascinates me to discover what's behind, beyond, and beheld." - from Lullaby for the Apprentice

…

Tal marches ahead, silent. I trudge a few steps behind her, screaming on the inside. It has been three days since we left; three days since my last bath. With no water, navigating the ashen plains, feeling the grime rub off onto my skin… ngah! Why, for all those years of research, hadn't magic yet figured out how to clean someone automatically?

The terrain is harsh, mangled by rocks with a fine coating of ash. They spring against my legs, working against the muscles. But I know not to complain – Sigrun and that Templar are having a worse time. She, with her dwarven-sized legs, are barely keeping up with my pace. But keep up she does, chatting away incessantly. Except this exact moment; near meal time, when Sigrun is thinking on how to cook our next meal. He, with his stupidly heavy full Templar armor, is lagging way behind. I don't need to bother checking him; I can still hear his armor clinging. He never takes off his armor, even while sleeping, and always has his mace handy. I wonder if he's afraid of me.

His behavior is just another thing to tick me off. We march from the crack of dawn until three hours after sunset. The damned ash is giving me coughs. I haven't had a bath for three damned days. I am tempted to say 'fuck it' and return home. The only thing keeping me sane is Sigrun's occasional jokes.

"Lunch, anybody?" I finally ask.

"Yes _please_. I am _starving_." Sigrun replies. Sinnan, far behind, caws 'yes'.

We look at Tal, who always points towards the nearest place where we may rest. Sure enough, she wordlessly nods to a collection of boulders some distance away, just visible through the ever-persistent ash. Sigrun picks up her pace, quickly running past us both. I follow after her, swinging the bag forward to unpack our food. By the time I reach the resting place, arms awkwardly full with food and bag straps, Sigrun has laid out the cooking utensils and built a makeshift stove.

"I swear you move the fastest when you are hungry. I should get you to fight after starving you." I jest, puffing at the sudden sprint.

"Don't worry. I'm always starving. Quick! We need fire!"

I dump the bag and spread out the food, and light the stove on fire. Normally, we would use wood, but there is no tree within the eyesight of the ashen horizon. So I use my mana to keep the fire going, keeping my hand awkwardly underneath the pot.

"I wish we had some wood." I repeat my thoughts out loud.

"We're lucky to even have enough water for a stew." Sigrun answer, her hands flying across various ingredients.

The water quickly boils, and Sigrun begins her own version of magic. She had picked up incredible cooking skills over the years, making full use of her poison-making skills as well as all the variety of surface foodstuffs. She had quickly surpassed my own miserable attempts at cooking, becoming famous amongst the Wardens for her stew.

Tiring, I sit down cross-legged on the ashen dirt, hands still maintaining the flame. With hardly a look in our direction, Tal arrives to finds herself a nice rock to sit on.

"We are halfway through the Ashes." She comments.

"The Ashes. Is that what this place is called?" I ask, hoping to snag this rare opportunity of Tal's talkativeness.

"Yes. Very few cross it safely. But the only challenge is water." Tal continue. She brushes the soot off her clothes as if swatting away ticks.

"Commander! Fire here as well, please!" Sigrun points to a large pan with her knife. In her other hand is a piece of vegetable that looks surprisingly fresh despite the three-day mashup in my bag. With a grunt, I shove another hand under the pan to create a second cooking fire. I'm vaguely aware of my comical pose – resembling a squashed frog – but as long as my food was warm, I'm more than happy to suffer some humiliation.

"What's beyond? Where exactly are we going?" I continue, twisting my neck to look at Tal.

"Just beyond the Ashes is the Blackwood forest, the eastern outskirts of the larger, Etala Tree-lands. Seer Pervanti currently awaits you near Etala lake."

Sinnan finally wanders in, sitting down on a deceptively uncomfortable boulder – one of those that looks nice and flat but will make you squirm as you try not to slide off it. He sighs, gives out a cough, shifts his position, and overall makes sure that he looked pissed off. He glance over at me and murmured something in his helmet and I'm sure it was Canticle of Transfigurations 1:2.

"Etala… sounds very elvish. Does that mean that there are elves in the West?"

Sinnan shoots me a look: or at least, his helmet does. That man was way too sensitive about racism. But how does he not know about _anything_ I did in Denerim? Am I really that unknown amongst the Templars? And here I thought everybody in Thedas knew about the legend of the Fifth Blight.

Suddenly, I'm blinded by a bright light and react by tripling my mana flow. It takes me a second to register the fact that my triple-sized 'cooking flames' singed a bit of my fingers. A frantic shaking of the hands does little to ease the pain.

"What was that? Are you alright?" Sigrun (who barely even blinked at the sudden explosion) ask, holding the pots and pans well away from my explosive hand. I'm fairly sure she's protecting the food from me, not the other way around.

I stare at my hands for a while, reassure her that I'm alive, then re-start the fire. Sigrun grants me a concerned glance before going back to cooking. It occurs to me much later where that light had come from – the stupid Templar shield. Those shields are coated specifically to reflect stuff – fire, ice shards, any form of magic. Oh, I'm fully aware of the tactical advantage it could give by blinding your opponents. It's terribly inconvenient though.

"Regarding your question…" Tal asks, her face showing a tiny bit of concern. For a Qunari, that tiny bit is very significant.

I continue a crumpled smile. "Thank you. Yes. Please continue. Are there elves? Humans? Dwarves? Qunari? Do they even speak the same language?"

"All races of Bas exist in the West. Ancient dwarven language is lost. Trade tongue is spoken wildly, though there are Tevinter words in that tongue. There has been attempts to use old Elven amongst elves. Most writing is done in variant of Tevene. There are no followers of the Qun in these lands."

Tal's brief speech sets off my wild curiosity – something that cements my position as forever a curious child. Almost all type of races is there! What history does this land have? Why are these people even here? They don't have darkspawn here… right? Nor is there a chantry. A world without the Chant? That's hard to imagine… I wonder what these people look like – what do they wear? I, oh, can't wait to read their books! Written in _Tevene_? That's good. I can… well… sort of read Tevene (courtesy of Enchanter Torrin's lessons, as well as my trip to Minrathus). I'm gonna have to learn fast. Regardless! I need to get a hold of these books. Take some back to Thedas. Maker! Books from another world are worth more than the gold equal in weight!

I catch myself staring blankly into the fire. With an embarrassed cough, I pause to smell the beginnings of the stew. But soon, I am distracted again, speaking of language…

"Tal. Your name in Qunlat, it means 'truth', doesn't it? Like, from Tal-Vashoth? The True Grey Ones?" Casor asked.

Tal looked at him with minimal expression. At least she doesn't brood like Sten.

"Tal is not a name. It is what I seek." She finally replied.

"Ah… is it like Sten? A position?" Casor asked again.

"No. Tal is not a position of the Qun. It is simply what I seek."

I nod. I think… I think I understand. Based off Sten's logic and conversations I had with him a decade ago, I think… she's a Vashoth. Re-introduced, perhaps, to the Qun. But then why would she be all the way out here? Whatever her history, she seems to have chosen to seek 'truth', in Qunari-fashion.

My vague understanding proves rather accurate, though it would take me many more conversations to understand this person.

"I think I understand… A noble cause. Good luck."

Tal, for now, gives me another expressionless stare. I know that there is a hint of approval somewhere behind that face. Sigrun pokes my forearm, her cooking now done.

"The meal's ready! Geez, I need to stop myself from eating it while I was cooking! Thanks for the fire."

I smile at the delicious aroma as I retract my hands. Turning behind, I create another tiny flame in my cupped hands and read the flickering candlelight. Three-quarters. Even compensating for that explosion, my mana's drained far too quickly.

I know the reason why. I didn't know the magnitude of it though. It comes as a grim surprise.

With a huge smile, I jump at the mouth-watering spectacle of cooked vegetables and Sigrun's signature soup. Sigrun had separated the serves onto a large bowl, handing one to me while nibbling on a piece of carrot. She gave the last one to Sinnan, who thanked her and started praying.

I watch this Templar as I drink my meal ("The soup's great again, Sigrun." "My pleasure. A bit of nug meat would have been nice though." "And elfroot." "Bleh! Not with this soup. Elfroot is too bitter when cooked."). He ceremonially unpacks a copy of the Canticles and begins praying rigorously.

I recognize the rhythmic nod of his helmet. In fact, I know exactly what verse he's reading now.

" _Heart that is broken, beats still unceasing, an ocean of sorrow does nobody drown. You have forgotten, spear-maid of Alamarr. Within My creation, none are alone_."

He is an absolute believer, borderline fanatic. I've seen his kind before – those who fail completely to understand what the Chants are about, yet brazenly claim to serve the Maker. Those who would raise the sword against the hearts of the people to 'serve' Andraste.

No doubt this Templar believes I'm a maleficar. He just needs an excuse to ignore the Divine's personal 'forgiveness' of my use of blood magic. Still, I don't think I'm 'depraved' by any stretch of imagination. Unfortunately, it'd be difficult to convince this man of the truth, as I have difficulty myself without using all the apostrophes.

Sinnan's helmet stops bobbing, and turns towards me. Perhaps he heard me sigh? He gets up, armed with his mace, with every intent to cause trouble. I shroud myself with thin veil of the Fade, nonchalantly as possible. It doesn't work.

"Why do you use your magic, _mage_? Are you a Maleficar? Do you believe in the Maker and His prophetess and bride, Andraste?" Sinnan shouts. He's voice is really annoying.

Sigrun and Tal doesn't partake in this encounter, and I remember that neither of them are Andrastian (Perhaps Tal might have read the Canticles). Still, they know about the Mage-Templar rivalry. They know that it's a bit more than just a 'rivalry', too. We all know about the War.

"Why is it that when anybody asks that question, what they are really saying is 'do you follow the Chantry?'" I reply, gulping down the soup.

" _Stand, Maleficar! And answer my question!_ "

It's a funny way to make a friend – scream at him for doing absolutely nothing. I've long wondered how the Mage-Templar War broke out, but looking at this guy, I think I have my answer.

I set down my soup and stand up, two heads taller than the Templar. Two heads angrier than him, too.

"I believe in the Maker. I believe that Andraste was a prophetess. But I don't follow the Chantry. I like the Chant of Light, but I have my disagreements and liberties." I growl.

Sinnan pauses, his helmet failing to hide his surprise and horror.

"Why? How could you believe, yet not follow?"

Jowan's voice rings in my ear, and it's surprisingly apt; 'Here we go again.'

"You'd be hard-pressed to find a mage in Thedas who like the Chantry. The Circles." I answer.

"Mages are a threat! They must be kept in control."

At this, I explode. "By cornering them and completely depriving them of freedom, family, and even love? And suppressing them with fear and blade? Tools that clearly won't work if they _do_ become an abomination? The damned Rite of Tranquility? The fucking Harrowing? The facade of peace? Separating lovers? _Killing_ friends? Even alienage elves aren't treated like us!"

"Us elves aren't _dangerous_! You mages kill! You mages are the only thing between our world and the Maker! Forever sinned you lot, and it must be the righteous path to be rid of all evil!" Sinnan retorts, his anger spurned further by mine.

I count to three in my head. I breathe, and regain some control. "Magic is no more dangerous than the weapon in your hand. Perhaps it is the intent behind the wielder that must be feared."

"How dare you-!"

I lift my hand and cast him to sleep. I don't want to bother arguing with a fanatic… neither side is going to win anyway. I let him fall painfully in his armor.

"Umm, Commander? I think you should re-heat the soup. It won't taste as nice cold." Sigrun advised.

I return to my meal, and the three of us eat in peace. Much later, when the Templar wakes up, he retreats further into his helm, obviously crestfallen at his defeat. At least he's smart enough to realize that he has no chance of defeating the Hero of Ferelden.

Why did the Chantry have to send _this_ guy?

…

True to Tal's words, it took us another three days to cross the Ashes. The supplies were starting to dwindle by then, especially water. Even with regular fillings at water holes, the flasks went skinnier and skinnier. Sigrun didn't have enough water to make a stew for the last day.

The lack of earthly luxuries, though, weren't the thing that was troubling me. It was that Templar. After our showdown, he changed completely, approaching me as if he is a great friend of mine. He told tales of his past and babbled on about the Chant at me and Sigrun (Tal, he didn't dare. She had receded back into her silence, though I did notice that her gestures were more animated than before). I treated him like a good friend, too – but all my instincts were telling me that something was horribly wrong. A Templar didn't change his beliefs just like that…

It got to a point where I couldn't sleep without casting a barrier on myself.

Meanwhile, Sinnan chirped happily, admitting that he wasn't officially incorporated into the Templar Order. Rather, he had saved a Templar's life many years ago, and that man had taught him Templar arts in return. Having been born in Antiva from a rich elven family (this was yet another warning sign for me. Zevran had well reminded me that the only reason an elf could be rich would be through the Crows), he was a deep believer of the Chanticles since he was young. When he saw the opportunity to do something for the Chantry, he jumped on board. Although the Chantry had disapproved his presence, the Knight-Commander of Antiva had allowed him to say. A series of fortunate events (he would wave his hand at the details) allowed him to be elected as part of the Messengers of the Chant. Back at the Grey Warden camp, he had begged and begged with the other heralds until he was allowed to go to the West.

"So, you are here for your devotion to the Chantry and your incredible persistence!" Sigrun complemented. She, too, knew of my suspicions, but she tended to believe in people's miraculous change. After all, she herself had changed from a deserter to a hero within weeks.

"I am here to serve." Sinnan replies with an air of smugness.

"You said you remember all of the Chant thingies?"

"Yes."

"Can I test you?"

"You do not know the Chant!"

"I thought this was the Chant?"

"My Canticles! How did you…!"

"Ha, ha! Old habits die hard! Or they never die. Here, it was just a joke."

"Do not ever do that again! It is not an object to play with!"

"Alright."

I smile faintly overhearing this conversation, watching the Blackwood forest draw near.

…

"Who named this place?" I ask, picking up some speed to catch up with Tal. The dark trees gnarled along the forest edge, trunks teeming with sinister-looking barks and bushes.

"I do not know." Tal reply. She shook herself down as she walked, creating a little cloud of dust and ash. I mimic her motions, remembering to give my Griffins a little shine. I should clean them properly when we settle down for the night.

"Whoever he or she was, they named it well."

Although the sun was still out, Blackwoods were very dark, the haze from the Ashes persisting deep into the tangled greenery. Well, better word would be 'greynery'. The path is only just visible.

"Hey Tal, wait up. We'll get lost here if we split."

Tal shakes her head ominously at my comment, but allows time for the dwarf and the elf to catch up. The pair gradually retreated into silence, also shaking off ash and feeling the gloom of the forest.

I turn my head towards the forest. I frown, then summon Honor. A fling of arrow hits the barrier, imbedded midair by the shield. It has no tip.

Both Sigrun and Sinnan draws their weapons in surprise, but Tal and I stand still. I'm confused as to why anybody would fire an edgeless arrow, but wait for them to show themselves. A quiet, startled whispers come from the woods, soon followed by Tal's loud voice.

"They are the Thedosians. It is unadvisable to harm them."

Rustling of leaves and more murmur of language… Two man and one women faze into view. All humans. I take a moment to take in their details.

Dressed in battle armor reminiscent of Morrigan's outfit, their black garbs aren't quite the color of the Woods. The cross-hatch pattern binds the tar-covered leather rather nicely – it's fine craftsmanship, on par with Wade's casual work. They were all armed with a bow (the same type of short reflex bow that Tal carried but seemingly never used) and a dagger. The female human's bow is, interestingly, made of iron, not wood… is that even practical? The middle one approached us carefully, an arrow loaded in his hand but not drawn.

"Avanna, Strangers from the East. Friend…?"

"Manaveris somniari." Tal replies.

The man nods and unload his bow. He bows deeply towards my direction.

"Apologies for our fears, stranger. We great you with utmost respect. Ahead are roads perilous yet comfortable, so ample protection will be demanded. Guide and shields, we shall be to you mysticus, and all your companions."

…

New chapter guys, after almost three months of silence! I told you it will be infrequent. Probably will take fifty years at this rate. It will speed up eventually, but for now, let's just leave it at this slow rate. I know most of us are disappointed by Mass Effect Andromeda. I personally haven't played it yet because the animations are deterring me. I know it's going to be good nonetheless, but I'll wait two months until they fix it up with all their patches. Meanwhile, I've got other plans…

So, we're now in the West! Sort of… It's really hard to describe this new world. Without the ability to use cutscenes and/or drawings, I'm struggling to explain it to you what this place is like. It's what all writers face, I guess, but I'm not a good author, so therein lies the problem.

For now, imagine Blackwood Forest as literally as possible – it's a collection of black woods that somehow forms a forest. The forest edge near the Ashes are obviously quite devoid of life – even the goddamned trees are barely alive. But each step towards the lake will lead you closer and closer to signs of habitat and wildlife. As soon as you start seeing flowers, you're in Etala Forest proper. With not many magical creatures around (more on this later) and warm climate, the central Etala is much like a temperate forest, borderline tropical. It's as generic as forests can get, pretty much.

If you wanted an exotic forest, you'll have to head far north, past the mountain ranges and into the tropical rainforest of Lathalene Forest. We don't go there in this story, but that place is filled with things that can (and actively try to) kill you within seconds. It's also the home of very interesting individuals.

Then again, where _isn't_ the home of very interesting individuals?


End file.
